


two halves of one heart

by donutcats



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: I tend to use a lot of the same words sorry about that, M/M, Temporary Character Death, copious mentions of blood, hopefully it makes you feel something, part two is filled with it changing from past to present tense with no real warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:11:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: Really, he should have seen it coming, he should have known his magic would one day react before his brain could.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because I heard a lyric in some random song, 'I'll take your pain', and my mind just started working at 100mph, and then it somehow very quickly turned into a complete au of the finale. I'm not even sorry. The entire thing felt so much longer while I was writing it, and while I'm a little disappointed that it's not quite as long as I hoped, I'm still proud of the end product. (the title itself is a lyric from for him. by troye sivan)
> 
> I want to thank one of my closest friends, Frank, for basically letting me ramble to her about this entire project, as I fixed it dozens of times, even though she knows only the basics of Merlin and is also pretty sick. Bless you <3

It starts off as an accident really, as Merlin being clumsy with magic- because alright, yes, he's the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, he's magic personified, _yes_ , but he still doesn't have a _handle_ on it. He can’t really truly be blamed.

Arthur complains one day, about an ache in his shoulder after an afternoon of practice with the knights, and Merlin silently wishes he could fix it, do something for it. He has a meeting with his father in a few minutes, and if Uther catches the way Arthur winches every time he turns his head to the left, Uther would never let him hear the end of it.

He places a hand on Arthur’s twinging shoulder as he fiddles with Arthur’s tunic, and he can’t help but sigh a little as he continues to think of the way Arthur will lock away the pain. Act as if nothing could possibly be bothering him. He imagines the way Arthur will purse his lips as he glances to his left as his father speaks to him and-  
  
Merlin can't help but hiss at the sudden ache that seems to leech it's way into his own shoulder, but he cuts the sound off as Arthur looks over at him, an eyebrow raised. "S'nothing. Don't wanna be late, now do you?" He says quickly, trying for a smile, and really Merlin is so thankful that he's become a professional at feigning a cheeky grin.

Arthur calls him an idiot, and grumbles some more under his breath as he leaves.

It isn't until he sees Arthur again, later in the day, that he realizes he _did something_. As Arthur remarks about how his shoulder miraculously felt fine throughout the entire council meeting, it sort of dawns on Merlin that there’s a very good explanation on why his own shoulder has been protesting through every chore he's done, and he's standing right in front of Merlin, taking off his shirt and throwing it onto the ground.

Gods dammit.

 

\---

 

It sort of maybe turns into a _thing_ , of Merlin seeing the way Arthur huffs about a small ache, and he can't help himself as he uses a splash of magic to take it away, to bear it as his own.

Merlin rationalizes it by saying it’s for the greater good. Arthur can do more things if he’s not hurt all the time. Arthur can attend more practices and council meetings. It’s really just to help him. Not at all because Merlin actually hates to see the twisted look on Arthur’s face that means he’s doing his best to hide how much something hurts, until he’s in the privacy of his chambers. 

Arthur gets out of bed one morning, rubbing at his head, mumbling about the start of a headache. Half way through the day, Merlin has to think of an excuse so he can go and curl up under his covers as the pain in his head seems to beat against his skull.  
  
Merlin spots a bruise across Arthur's lower back as he helps him undress, and he knows Arthur hasn't noticed it by now, or else there would have been a groan and one of the loud complaints he only saves for Merlin's ears. Later that night, Gaius walks into Merlin's room to ask a favor of him tomorrow, and questions how Merlin got the angry blue purple storm cloud along his skin.

With a hiss, Arthur sticks his finger in his mouth, mumbling around the digit about ‘ _stupid paper and it’s edges as sharp as the best blades, may as well make the knights practice with the reports they fill out, seems like it would hurt just as much as any sword',_ and then Merlin is there, tugging on Arthur’s hand. When Arthur finally pops it from his mouth, he’s surprised to see the bleeding has all but stopped, and there’s hardly even a scratch. Merlin smiles as Arthur gets back to scribbling on some map, his own finger stinging and pressed into the fabric of his red kerchief.

It becomes second nature, almost, to take Arthur's pain away when he won't notice, and sometimes even with bigger things.

Merlin learns how to take half of the pain, to leave the physical mark but to make it easier for Arthur to breathe. That little trick comes in handy a lot, especially when Arthur knows how serious the damage is.

Merlin can't risk taking away a sword wound to the shoulder, not when Arthur is bleeding and Leon is tying a cloth around the wound, but he can gently take the cloth from Leon, and he can place a hand on the jagged skin, brace himself for the pain, and somehow manage to finish the makeshift bandage all while his entire shoulder blade is burning.

Arthur smiles at him, his breath less labored, and it feels like a victory.

 

\---

  
Really, he should have seen it coming, he should have known his magic would one day react before his brain could.  
  
Merlin places both hands over Arthur's side, tears streaming down his face, because it can't end like this _it can't_ , they're too far away from Avalon, Arthur won't make it- so his magic makes a decision for him.  
  
Arthur gasps back to consciousness the same moment Merlin doubles over, a rapidly spreading stain soaking his shirt.  
  
He coughs, and he can feel the blood slide over his lips, into the grass. For a second, he wonders why there's so much more than there was with Arthur, but then in the next breath, he supposes his body is much different to Arthur's. Great, ontop of now having a stab wound and possibly having a piece of metal inching ever closer to his heart, he's bleeding buckets worth all because of a misplaced organ.  
  
" _Merlin_." There's hands on him, rolling him over onto his back. When did he curl up on the ground to begin with? It's all feeling a bit fuzzy, laced with a burning pain. "You stupid, _stupid_ insufferable twat."  
  
"I saved your life," he manages weakly, a laugh that bubbles into another cough. "Better be nicer to me."

Arthur leans over him, slanting into the edges of his vision, giving him something to focus on. “I’ll be nicer when you’re dead-” Arthur’s voice cuts off, and Merlin thinks all the color drains from his face when he notices the choice of his words. “I didn’t- fuck.” He tears his gloves off with his teeth, throwing them somewhere, and then his hands are back, gripping his shoulder, big, calloused and warm. “Tell me how to help.”

"Bring me-" his words catch in his throat, and he tugs on Arthur's sleeve as he tries to force them past the odd knot that's settled between his collarbones. "I need- somewhere open- clearing."  
  
He hears Arthur curse some more, under his breath, and then he's pulling away. Something tugs at Merlin's insides, the feeling of being _left_ , of Arthur leaving him to die because he learned of the magic, because this is all too messy. But then chainmail noisily clinks together in a pile on the ground, and Arthur is back, arms jostling him as he slips them under Merlin. "You better know what you're doing."  
  
It hurts, gods does it hurt, but he tries to laugh again, because how can he not. Arthur tucks him close to his chest, and Merlin pushes past the pain of every movement to curl his fingers into Arthur's tunic. "Never."

 

\---

 

He's not sure how long they walk for, but Arthur talks almost the whole time, carrying him like he's something breakable. He prattles on, in a very un-Arthur like way, his voice strained but measured as he tries to keep Merlin's attention.  
  
At first, he talks about the things he's looking forward to once they get back to Camelot- he stresses the word _they_ every time. It soon turns into fond memories of the knights, which then gently fade into the quiet memories of Arthur's childhood.

Arthur tells Merlin about when he was small, when he would play knights with Morgana and she would always insist on him being the princess. (Merlin notices the way his voice catches every time he says her name) 

He tells him about the time he was fifteen, and he had a run in with some very irritable pixies out in the forest. Arthur had managed to get away, with nothing more than a few scratches on his face and a spotty memory that only lasted about a day and a half. "See Merlin,” Arthur ducks below a branch, his nose brushing along Merlin’s temple as he does. “I managed just fine without having a guardian sorcerer. Though, I suppose if you were there, I probably would have left with even less than that."  
  
Merlin laughs weakly, again, face tucked into Arthur's shoulder.

Finally, Arthur pushes his way past a tree line, and when Merlin tips his head back, his neck bumping against Arthur's arm, he can see the stars. Arthur stands for a moment, as if stepping through the haze of memories, as if remembering why they're here. "What now?" he asks, taking a few more steps forward, eyes sweeping for any threats. "I brought you to a clearing, though I'm still utterly stumped on _why_ . You're mortally wounded Merlin, we should be getting you back to Camelot."  
  
But Merlin just makes a noise in the back of his throat, and he pushes at Arthur’s chest until Arthur finally gives in and lowers him into the grass. Merlin pulls himself up to sit on his knees. "No no, I- Camelot won't help. _Trust me_." He wonders how disheveled he looks, how completely and utterly fucked, because even though Arthur nods, there's still something settled in his eyes.  
  
He can't get his voice to the volume he normally uses, but the old language still spills from his tongue. His words stumble a few times, and he has to force himself to not sway, but then Arthur's hand is there, steadying him.  
  
" _Merlin-_ "  
  
"Hush, I'm asking for help."

A few minutes later, as Merlin stares at the night sky, and Arthur stares at him, there's the unmistakable sound of beating wings. By the time Kilgharrah has landed in front of the pair, Merlin has completely slumped back against Arthur's legs, and he can feel Arthur's knee bump into his shoulder as he tries to move, to greet the Great Dragon.  
  
"Oh, young warlock. What have you done to yourself now?"  
  
"I told you I'd save Arthur." Merlin tries for a smile, and he can feel the dried blood on his chin crack under the movement.

Kilgharrah sighs, a great sound that seems to pack centuries of exasperation behind it. "It would seem you have."  
  
"Merlin, what in the _bloody hell_ -" Arthur shifts, his knee brushing between Merlin’s shoulder blades. He knows Arthur didn’t mean it, but it sends a pain shooting down his spine none the less.  
  
"Ah, the Once and Future King. Pleasure to meet you, though I must admit the circumstances aren't quite ideal."  
  
"No, I would say not."  
  
Merlin lurches forward, hands curling into the damp grass, and he can feel the pulse of his blood, seeping through the wound in his side every time he breathes. "Kilgharrah, _please_ . I don't know who else can help."  
  
The dragon sighs once again, settling back and adjusting his wings. "I can not help you. You know the dangers of a blade forged in dragon's breath."  
  
Merlin can't help but crumple even farther forward, the grass now sliding against his forehead.

Kilgharrah was right, he _did_ know the dangers, yet he still decided to take this burden onto himself. Arthur's hands are once again at his shoulders, grabbing, trying to pull him closer, but Merlin twists away. There's a comfort that comes from this, oddly enough. Of feeling the earth against his skin. The sigh of the breeze as it ruffles his hair.

He faintly hears Arthur yelling something, probably at the dragon, but he only snaps back to reality when Kilgharrah speaks.  
  
"I said _I_ can not help him, not that there is no cure, young king. Bury him in the earth-"  
  
"Bury him? Are you _mental_ -"  
  
"Yes, bury him, and he will mend. Albion will not let her heart die."


	2. Part 2

It’s been months, long days that stretch and never end, and there is still no sign of Merlin within the castle walls. Arthur waits, he's been waiting since the Great Dragon took his leave, since Merlin gasped one last breath. He's been waiting.

Arthur sits at his desk, squinting out into the afternoon light, fingers absently brushing over the newest scar on his palm. He finds himself drawing back, into that memory, more and more. Every time he lets his mind wonder, it always settles into that evening.  
  
He remembers the way Merlin clung to him, one hand clumsily wrapping itself around the back of Arthur's neck, breaths coming quick and shallow. "Stay with me," he had asked, words stilted, nails digging into Arthur's skin, and all Arthur could do was nod.

It was quiet, for only a few moments, as Arthur listened to Merlin shift and breathe, but then he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. If that was the last time he spoke to Merlin, he wanted to make it count.

"There's something I want to say," Arthur's voice was rough, as he pulled Merlin closer, tried not to jostle him.  
  
"You're not going to say goodbye, are you? You prat-"  
  
"No, just listen for once in your life."  
  
Merlin quieted, hand resting against the wet spot on his shirt. Arthur stared down at him, and Merlin’s eyes were the color of the sea as it breaks against a cliff face. Dark and swallowing him whole.  
  
Arthur settled a hand on his cheek, and he felt the way his fingers slipped across Merlin’s skin, tear tracks cut through the dirt on his face. "I want to say something I've never said to you before." His voice was quiet, and he felt a tick in his jaw as Merlin made an uncomfortably wet sound. “For all you’ve done, for me, for Camelot. For the kingdom you helped me build.”

Merlin shifted again, and then his hand moved, planting itself on Arthur’s sternum. “You would’ve done it without me.”

Arthur shook his head, rejecting it completely. " _Thank you_."

A smear of blood was left against Arthur’s skin, as Merlin’s hand fell away.  
  
By the time Arthur finally looked away from Merlin's still body, the edges of the sky where starting to bleed from black to indigo. The words of the glorified lizard rang clear in his head, as Arthur once again gathered Merlin into his arms. _Bury him_. But the question was, where? Arthur didn't think he could make it all the way back to Camelot, not without a horse, and gods only knew where Merlin left them. Ealdor wasn't an option either, still too far away.  
  
Arthur resigned himself to having to bury Merlin in some nameless patch of land, far from home.

Perhaps luck was on his side, because before the sun had even crept over the horizon, Arthur stumbled across a shack, set into the woods. It reminded him vaguely of the house Merlin had taken him to, all those years ago when his father was dying. He tamps that memory down, kicks it away. He was in no mood to think about the old fool of a wizard that Merlin used to disguise himself as.  
  
As the day inched forward, Arthur found himself dismantling the small house, breaking apart the table in the middle of the room, and even the lonely shelf that leaned precariously in the corner. _Bury him_. No matter how much Arthur did not want to, he had the itching feeling under his skin that it was something he _had_ to do. Merlin at least deserved some sort of coffin, even if it was hastily thrown together from broken furniture. Arthur was never a carpenter, but he suspected it would hold.  
  
He rubs at the scar once more, remembering the way a wayward nail stabbed into the fleshy bit of his hand. A reminder of that day.

Sunlight streaks across his desk, cutting a path along the various papers laid out, illuminating random sentences from reports. There's an ink stain, at the corner of one of the maps, nestled into the edges of the block of light, and it sends something painful to Arthur's chest.

Months ago, weeks before Camlann, Merlin had been trying to make a grab for the map, prattling about some half assed idea or another. Arthur snatched for it at the same time, and with the sudden movement, the inkwell decided that moment would be best to tip over, spilling onto the paper and both of their hands.  
  
Merlin had apologized and blamed Arthur all in one breath, while wiping at the ink on Arthur's hands with a cloth he produced from seemingly nowhere. Arthur remembers wanting to be angry, wanting to snap and bat Merlin's hands away, but instead he pressed his lips together, and he let Merlin clean things up as best he could. Then, he was smiling, in that sheepish way of his, and Arthur smiled back, rolling his eyes for extra measure.  
  
Now, Arthur tucks the map away, under various other papers, refusing to look at it.

There's a knock at his door, and before he has the chance to find his voice, to invite them in, Gwen is sweeping into his chambers, wrapped in a beautiful blue gown. The sight of her constricts something inside of him, the constant feeling he's had since he's returned to Camelot rearing it's head once again.  
  
He failed her. He was her King, her husband, and he _failed her_. Sweet, lovely Gwen. She deserved so much more than a shell of a man who spent every waking moment of his life waiting for someone else. She deserved more than Arthur who had hardly any room in his thoughts for things that were not Merlin.  
  
Gwen smiles at him, crossing through the rooms to come and stand in front of his desk. "Arthur."  
  
"Gwen." Arthur can't help but smile back. It's proven impossible to resist the way Gwen can fill an entire room with her presence. "What can I help you with?"  
  
Her eyebrow ticks up, and for a frightening second she reminds Arthur of Gaius. "Tell me, your highness," and she pours just enough sarcasm into the title to turn it into a tease, "have you eaten today? I spoke with Tomas, as I passed him in the hall, and he was carrying a plate of untouched food."  
  
Ah, so that's why she's shown up. Gwen might not be his wife any longer, which in itself was a long story that included many days of talking, of Gwen's soft words and soothing reassurances. She was hurt, he knew it, and she had every right to be, but yet it was her to say that they perhaps were no longer a very good idea. But, that did not deter her from worrying over him, which, in honesty, Arthur was grateful for.

Arthur shuffles a few papers, before standing up from his desk, looking around his chambers and wondering how he could possibly slip away from this conversation.  
  
"Will you join me for lunch, then? You know you have to _eat_ , Arthur." She catches him on his way past, fingers curling around his upper arm. “Am I going to have to order you to join me? As your Queen?" Gwen bookends her lilting question with another smile, giving his arm a squeeze.  
  
"Yes, alright. I suppose I could go for some lunch." Arthur acquiesces after a moment. Maybe it would be good for him, to spend some time with Gwen, away from his ever drowning thoughts.

"I just worry about you, Arthur."  
  
"I know."

 

\---

 

As the door closes, Arthur runs a hand over his mouth, and the feel of the cool metal from his ring seems to ground him. He sits back down at his desk, pulling out the stained map and staring at it. There's another spot on it, not a stain but a purposeful marker, cradled in a swath of forest between Camelot and Lake Avalon.  
  
The shovel handle clicked against his mother's ring as he readjusted his grip. The sun hung high, it's warmth cutting through the late autumn air, filtering through the leaves of the forest and creating abstract patterns on the ground.

He was reminded, suddenly, of a picnic, of telling Gwen if he was never a Prince, he would quite enjoy being a farmer. He remembers the surety in his voice, when he told her with no hesitation that of course he would bring Merlin along. Like it was the most natural thing, as if she shouldn't of even had to ask.  
  
How ironic, Arthur had thought, that there was a sick sense of that dream here, in this moment. With dirt on his hands and a rusty tool thrown to the wayside. With the knowledge that Merlin was in the house, but not in the way that his fantasy had painted. There was no chance of him stumbling out of the door, a basket under one arm, ready to help Arthur plow fields or harvest something or other.  
  
Bringing Merlin out of the shack had been, _hard_ , not physically but- it's something that Arthur does not like to dwell on, or else he'll become a complete mess once again. He gently placed Merlin down, into the coffin that lay in the grave he spent all day digging. Something seemed to break, right between his ribs, and it hurt Arthur to breathe, even as he stood on shaking legs and forced himself to pick up the shovel once again-  
  
Arthur rolls the map up, cutting the memory off sharply.

  
  
\---

  
  
A handful of hours later, Arthur finds himself following a servant to one of the barely used parlor rooms of the castle. Or well, one of the rooms that Arthur himself barely used. Apparently, Gwen had taken possession of a few unused rooms throughout the castle, and that doesn't surprise Arthur at all.  
  
They chat during lunch, and Arthur finds himself _enjoying_ it. It's an odd feeling, for the hollow pang of waiting to be gently pushed aside, just for the hour. But Arthur welcomes it, and he realizes how much he's missed Gwen. She tells him the going's on of the castle, reminds him of things he has forgotten to do.

Of course she takes the opportunity to once again tell Arthur to be nicer to his manservant, Tomas.

“I am perfectly nice to him.” Arthur bristles, shoving some bread into his mouth.

Gwen rolls her eyes, leaning her elbows onto the table. Sometimes, Arthur’s reminded that she hasn’t always been nobility, and it’s a comforting thing, to know that no matter what she’ll always be Gwen.

“You most certainly are not. You treat him terrible! As if he isn’t even there half the time.”

Arthur presses his lips together, picks at the small sandwiches that sit on an elegant plate. “Maybe I would treat him as if he were more than a ghost in my chambers if he acted like one. He’s so- so,” He makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying to grasp for the right word. “ _Unobtrusive_. It’s unbearable Gwen.”

“He’s definitely no Merlin.” She says, quietly, from half way behind her knuckles. Arthur tenses, as if his body is reacting to the sound of that name before his mind can fully comprehend the sentence. Gwen’s hand finds his, folding them together. “It’s alright, Arthur. You can talk about him. Of all people, I’ll understand.”

No, he’s not like Merlin, not in the slightest. Arthur lets out a breath, shoulders dropping from around his chin.

“Tomas- it’s as if I hardly live in my chambers. Everything is so spotless. Dishes are never left on the table, the laundry has never seen a day on the floor. My boots live in a happy orderly line, and it feels. Gods Gwen it feels _wrong_.” The words tumble out of him, as if he’s just been waiting for the right moment to say these things.

Gwen squeezes his hand, and she uses her free one to signal to the servants. They quietly leave the room.

“Merlin- he would always have a jacket of mine hanging on the back of a chair, for the ‘just in case’ he’d say. There would always be a small bowl, filled with fruits, for if I ever got hungry. I knew for a fact it was more for Merlin than it ever was for me. Every time I looked around, I could see bits and pieces of Merlin, of his existence, scattered about. Now, there’s nothing, nothing at all and it feels- it feels _empty_.”

The last word is a sob, a hitched breath, and his shoulders shake as he leans forward, holding himself up against the table. He wants to cry, god does he want to cry, but the hollowed out place in his chest refuses to let him. So instead, he chokes on his own breath, covers his eyes with a hand, and lets Gwen whisper reassurances into his hair.

“He’ll come back, Arthur. He will.”  
  
“How can you know.” It’s not said as a question, more of a tired statement. How could she know. Full stop. She can’t, she’s no seer.

“Because,” she takes it as a question anyways, hands smoothing his hair away from his face. “Merlin always comes back. He always comes back to you. Because _he loves you_.”

Arthur coughs, splutters, because those were not the words he was expecting to hear.

“And you love _him_. I told you that once before, but I think you were more preoccupied with us divorcing then hearing a very genuine fact about yourself.” She continues to smooth a hand through his hair, and it’s calming. Not for the first time today, Arthur feels utterly grateful to Gwen. “If I know Merlin, then not even death will be able to stand in his way if he even has an inkling of your feelings.”

They sit, for a few more moments, in silence. Arthur calms his breathing, and Gwen quietly goes back to her lunch. She makes Arthur pick at the rest of his as well, because no matter how emotional a conversation can be, he still apparently needs to eat.

It felt, good though. To talk, to actually say and hear those things. Arthur suspects he needed something like that.

The servants clear away the plates soon after, and then Arthur is standing, smoothing out the front of his tunic. “I suppose I should be going. Apparently, council meetings cannot start without their King.” He tries for a smile, to show that this entire thing was genuinely appreciated.

“Do you think I should join you?” Gwen asks, returning his attempt at a smile with something much easier. She’s always been good at that, Arthur muses.

He makes a show of thinking, pushing his chair in and offering her a hand. “I _would_ prefer if my Adviser were to accompany me.”

She laughs, a soft sound, draining the last of the tension from his shoulders. Before they leave, he whispers an equally soft _thank you_ , for her ears only. Gwen’s smile widens, as she links her arm through his.

  
  
\---

  
  
The journey back to Camelot had been long, as he suspected it would. Luckily for Arthur, he had stumbled his way into a village that was more than happy to help. He took only what he needed, some food and a horse, and was once again on his way.  
  
He doesn't remember how long it took him, but he remembers letting himself grieve. It mustn't have been more than a few days, but by the time he could see the citadel on the horizon, he had already shed his body weight in tears. By the time the borrowed horse clopped across the drawbridge, knights already shouting out his name, the soon to be familiar hollow feeling had already settled in his chest.  
  
Gwen had tended to him, personally, gentle hands wiping the blood and dirt from his face, from beneath his fingernails. She listened, so intently, while he told her of Merlin, as he choked out the words having to do with magic and death and _guilt._ He wanted to cry then, as she held her hand to her mouth, but he couldn't find it in himself.  
  
Gwen sits next to him now at the Round Table, and Arthur can see the way she absently fiddles with her hair, out of the corner of his eye. Leon is droning on, a paper filled with names and numbers on the table in front of him, and Arthur finds himself longing, not for the first time, to hear Merlin's voice in his ear, a teasing quip about the boring conversation.  
  
A pile of reports flutter next to his hand, and with a frown, Arthur silently signals for a servant to come closer. "Shut the window, will you?"  
  
The servant, a young girl with hair the color of a copper coin, seems to shift on her feet. Her voice is quiet, slightly uncertain as she speaks. "Sire, there are no windows open."  
  
The papers flutter again, and this time he knows it wasn't something he imagined, because the girl, what was her name again? It was something that reminded Arthur of the forest, of the spring- Laurel. That was it. Laurel's eyes widen by a fraction, gaze whipping to meet his.  
  
Well, that’s not disconcerting in the slightest.  
  
Before he can speak again, to ask Gwen if she had seen the same thing, the reports, including the one that Leon is still reading aloud from, sweep across the table, fluttering to the floor.  
  
"What in the bloody hell-"  
  
The large double doors seem to rattle at the sound of Arthur's voice, not violently, but just enough, as if they want to be noticed. Laurel scurries back, joining the other few servants who look just as spooked at the back of the room. Arthur is about to stand, to draw his sword, because nothing that has moved on it's own has ever been historically in Arthur's best interest; then the double doors blow open, both at the same time.  
  
Standing in the doorway, is a figure. A large cloak swallows half of their shape, the hood masking their face, giving the illusion they don't have one. They stand there, imposing, for all of a split second, and then they're doubling over, hands bracing on their knees, breathing harshly.  
  
There's something familiar about the person, something _achingly_ familiar. So much that it makes Arthur finally stand, with such force that his chair is knocked backwards, landing with a hard crack against the stone. They're tall, he can see that even through the cloak, they're legs are long, and there's something about the angle of the shoulders. There's just _something_.  
  
"Who are you?" Arthur demands, his own hands braced against the table.  
  
The figure laughs, a breathless pitch, nothing menacing about it, and the sound feels like a blade slotting between Arthur’s ribs all over again. The hood gets shoved back, and the first thing Arthur sees are the eyes, as blue as the stained glass in the higher windows. Sparkling and clear.  
  
"I'm late, _obviously_."  
  
Arthur doesn't remember moving, but he's around the table, and Merlin's in his arms, and it feels like something fits back into place, into that hollow chasm in his chest. Merlin laughs again, this time into Arthur's neck, both of their hands grasping onto each other, as if they're afraid to let go.


End file.
